Memorata in Aeternum
by Dr.Scarecrow
Summary: ME2. From the death of Shepard, to the death of a threat. The lives of those under Shepard's command are not easy ones, but she knows this. They all know this. Here, Death is a constant figure, and they must find a way to live with him. Various pairings.
1. Prologue

My first non-OC-oriented Mass Effect (2) fanfiction. It centers on no particular person, but it starts off strongly as a Joker fic. Take that as you will.

I do not own anything of Mass Effect, nor Mass Effect 2. Not even the games.

* * *

_The ship._

_The _Normandy_._

_She's…_

"—exploding, so make sure everyone gets to the escape pods!" Joker bellowed, typing furiously at the helm of the Alliance ship.

_Navigator Pressly._

_Dead on the floor behind him._

_Crewmen dying. Somebody…_

"—put those damn fires out!" He was at his wit's end. Out of all the things to do them in—Saren, the geth, the reapers—it was some goddamn _ship?_

_Shepard._

_Down in the lower levels._

_Was she…_

"—alive, damnit. I'm not going to let them take the _Normandy_!" he growled. He didn't realize he was alone, and that the cockpit had sealed itself off from the vacuum of space that used to be the CIC. When he did, he swore, then put on his helmet. It wouldn't be worth three whoops in hell if—_when_—that crazy-ass ship finally hit him with that laser, but fuck it.

The orange glow of the controls flickered, so very bright against the darkness of the helm. Making a face, Joker didn't hesitate as his fingers danced hurriedly across the interface. Like the helmet, it was useless, but that wouldn't stop him from trying to salvage the Normandy. Still, even if he could get away, they were stranded in the middle of nowhere, their fuel was practically non-existent, people were dying, and that ship, that fucking _ship_—

"Joker! Come on, we need to get out of here!" Shepard's voice suddenly crackled through his helmet speakers. She was right behind him. Alive.

"No, Commander! This is my ship, and I'm not going to let those sonsabitches take it from me!"

"Damnit, Joker, this is no time to be sentimental! The _Normandy_'s going down, and I'm not letting you go with it! Now get your ass in gear and get out of that damn seat!" she snapped, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him up so roughly he thought his humorous was going to snap in half.

"Alright, alright!" Joker relented, though he was still half-dragged to the escape pod near the cockpit. Hauling himself inside, he gave a small yell as the Normandy took another hit, falling onto the seats in front of him. He steadied himself, then looked out onto the bridge, and this time strained his throat shouting, "Commander!"

She had been jarred loose from her hold on the ship, and was now floating away. He would later think back on this moment, sure that she had looked at him with a finality that one should never see in life; and he would be sure that he had looked into the face of Death itself.

"COMMANDER!" he hoarsely cried, but that look—that look told him it was futile.

Shepard, as a way of saying goodbye, slammed her fist onto the escape pod's eject button. Another explosion knocked her clear of the ship entirely, and the last thing Joker would see of his commander, and in the dreams soon to come, was her struggling with her oxygen tube as she twisted and flailed about in the cold reaches of space.

He wasn't to sleep for a month after that.


	2. On Weather and Death

You know, you never really think about weather in space. Maybe because there is none. But it's such a peculiar thing, when you think about it. We evolved, or were created, whichever way you want to think about it, on a planet where weather was everywhere. Climate. A sky, a ground. Wind, air. You don't get that in a ship, or on a space station. The air isn't quite stale, but it's not fresh air. There _is_ no air in space. So we have to make do with artificial air. Which, I mean, hey, it's not bad. We could, y'know, suffocate. And die. Which would suck. I mean, how horrible is it to suffocate? I'm sure, when I die, I will ask Shepard.

But back to my point. Weather. Take, for example, the Citadel. It has artificial weather, kind of. No rain, but it's sunny and has a slight breeze. Doesn't anybody miss their home-planet's weather? I mean, I don't want _typhoons_ or nothin', but a nice drizzle, or maybe some stronger wind. But no, that would disturb all the politicians and businesspeople.

Some snow would be nice.

"Jeff Moreau?"

I look up to see a striking young woman with long, thick black hair standing above me. She's dressed in business-casual clothes: a nice shirt, nice jacket, nice slacks. She has a pretty accent, almost Australian.

I glare at her. "Not in the mood, whoever you are."

She smiles almost coldly. I shiver. Did I ask for snow? I meant a heatwave.

"I think you might want to hear what I have to say to you." Without asking, the stranger takes a seat at the table I'm sitting at, resting one arm on the table. No manners.

"Look, I don't want to talk to any more reporters. I'm sick of that shit. I also don't want to talk, period. I just want to enjoy my drink, and stare at what passes for a sky around here. So take a hike," I mutter, slouching back down.

"You miss your ship, don't you, Mr. Moreau?" she asks with interest.

She seems to like it when I glare, because she laughs a little when I give her a mean look.

"Oh, did I hit a sore spot?" Suddenly, she leans across the table and folds her hands together, losing her condescending smile, completely serious. I lean away. "What would you say if I told you you could have it back, brand new, in better shape than it ever was before?"

"I'd tell you I was the queen of fucking Siam." God, can't this woman get back to her kitchen?

"Cute. My name is Miranda Lawson, and I'm here to propose that you be the new pilot of the ship we are building." Miranda slips a small folder out of her coat and hands it to me. I stare at it distrustfully. Seeing that I won't pick it up, she places it on the table without fuss.

"Why me?" I ask, mostly because she doesn't seem to plan on leaving anytime soon, partly because it _was_ interesting.

"We need a pilot, and we want one of the best."

"Uh-huh." I still don't trust this. "And just who 'needs' me?"

Miranda smiles. "My employer likes his privacy. In general, you'll be working for Cerberus."

I smile back at her—then push my chair away from the table. "Nope, that's it, goodbye."

Gathering myself up in my crutches, I walk away from the table—they'll just put the drink on my tab—whistling merrily.

"You'll be saying yes yet, Mr. Moreau," the Cerberus woman calls after me.

I give her a jaunty wave courtesy of my middle finger, continuing on my way down the open Presidium.

* * *

"Good evening, nobody." I flip on the lights in the small apartment, then almost break every bone in my body when I trip over a small package placed right in front of my door. Luckily, I catch myself on the wall, but my crutches clatter to the floor. Cursing, I right myself and pick them up, then turn my attention to the thing that nearly killed me.

"What in the fucking—HOW DID THEY GET IN MY APARTMENT."

Grumbling, I scoop it up with the practice many cripples must learn, then hobble awkwardly over to the small sofa in the living room portion of my cheap-ass apartment. The package bears no markings, not even a logo. I stare at it a second, then place it on the coffee table before making my way to the kitchen. Food first, then mysterious packages. If it was a bomb—and why would it be?—that was fine. I could handle dying. It would be a cool way to die, too.

"Mmm, packaged noodles," I say aloud to no one, tearing open the aforementioned package and putting it in a bowl of water, along with the seasoning. I put it in the microwave.

It's funny, but did you know that the Citadel has specific sections of housing designed for each species? That's why there's a microwave here. Not really sure what I'd be cooking with if I was in, say, an elcor apartment. Something crazy.

The noodles finish cooking, and I return to the living room with food in hand to feast.

I keep my eyes on the package as I eat, the thought that I am in a staring contest with it crazily lurking in my mind. About halfway through my sad excuse for a meal I throw my fork down and take my cap off, running my hand through my hair. This is crazy. Cerberus broke into my apartment and left me some sort of gift, because there is no way in the galaxy that is _not_ from Cerberus.

Why do I care?

What do they want with me?

Why not just open it?

So I do. Examining it, I find the opening and slip my finger into it, pulling out the side, which I then raise. My breath hitches in my throat. Whatever I was expecting—bombs, papers, money—it was not this.

Glittering slightly in the dim light are Shepard's dogtags.

* * *

"You're back, I see," the woman says smugly. I just about want to slap that look right off her perfectly-chiseled face.

"What do you want from me," I say in a tight voice, Shepard's tags clenched in my fist. I had crutched down here as fast I could, thinking—_knowing—_that Miranda would still be at my usual table.

"What I want from you is your employment," she replies simply.

"Why? Why me?"

"Because you're special. You're not only one of the best bloody pilots the Alliance has seen—you were one of Shepard's best friends. And that's important."

"And these—" I can't bring myself to say the word. I jiggle my fist a little instead. The tags jingle softly.

"Are for you. Of course, Shepard may want them back." She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture.

I feel myself pale, and my heart nearly stops.

"What?" is all I can manage to say.

She smiles at me again, this time genuinely. "We're bringing her back, Mr. Moreau. Joker. And you're going to be there for her, as her pilot."

I sag against my crutches in disbelief. My mind is running around in so many directions I can't even comprehend my own thoughts. For many minutes I stand there, dazed and confused, and Miranda doesn't say a word. Finally, I clear my throat, and look down at the silver dogtags gleaming in my fingers.

"When do I start?"


	3. On Comfort and Life

Had to fix a small problem with some past tense I slipped into for a moment. Fine now.

* * *

The humming of the computer console is comforting, though I wouldn't admit it to anyone. There are many things that alleviate any stress that I may have: console lights, a comfortable chair, Shepard's tags.

Shepard's tags.

I finger them, a habit I've gotten into since having gotten them over a year ago. They clink against each other reassuringly, almost seeming to talk to me. 'Good morning, Joker, how are you today? Are you scared? Don't be. We're here with you. And so is she.' They're right, though. I am scared. Sitting in the Lazarus Research Station, in a brightly lit room, I'm slouched against a bright white couch looking at a bright white ceiling with bright white lights. I hate to admit it, but my legs are trembling so hard my crutches, propped up against my knee, are clattering a little. I don't know if I can go through with this, not at all. Still, I think about Shepard, and it helps a little. Would Shepard be a baby about this? I dunno, she's kind of dead right now. Can't exactly ask her.

"Mr. Moreau? We're ready for you," a nice-looking blonde woman informs me, glancing up from her data pad. I jump in my seat, spilling my crutches, but I pick them up hurriedly and follow her through the door she came in, cheeks blushing like an idiot. Taking notice of a gesture from the lady, I crutch over to a table that looks extremely uncomfortable and sit on it. She takes my crutches—shit, this was a bad idea—and disappears through another door, telling me to, "Strip please," as she leaves.

Stuck in a cold room on a cold operating table, I struggle to undress without breaking my legs. I get the shirt off fine, and, eventually, I valiantly take off my pants. I'm debating whether or not to do away with my boxer-briefs as well, when the door reopens and in steps in a team of scientists and doctors.

Oh, _shit_.

"Mr. Moreau, I'm Leon Hyle," the man in front explains, giving my hand a shake, "and I'm the head of the second medical cell here on Lazarus. We'll be operating on you today."

"Uh." I swallow. "Hello."

He smiles at me disarmingly. "Don't worry; you'll be asleep through the whole thing. Now, are there any questions?"

"Um. How long will this take?"

Dr. Hyle consults his datapad. "Up to thirty-eight hours total. You will be given some strong sedatives here in a moment, which should allow you to slip into unconsciousness within no time. After that, we'll prep your body for surgery, then we will officially begin work. If everything goes to plan, you should be...'upgraded,' so to speak, and walking without the aid of crutches within days. Anything else?"

I drag my hands down my face. "No," I reply in a haggard voice. "No, let's get this over with."

He pats me gently on the shoulder. "No worries, Mr. Moreau. We're part of the team rebuilding Commander Shepard; you're in capable hands."

The thought of his 'capable' hands having touched Shepard—a long-dead Shepard—makes me shiver as the team fans out around the room. The same blonde from before comes by with a tray holding a needle and vial.

"Please lay down, Mr. Moreau," she tells me courteously. I do as she says, goosebumps rising all over my body as my skin meets the cold, hard surface of the metal table. I breathe in and out, loudly, as the lady swabs my arm with a substance, then injects whatever chemical it is they use for this kind of thing into my arm. My face scrunches with the stinging pain, but the needle is soon out and away from my body. Thank _god_.

The doctors around the room are murmuring and moving around quietly. Metal clinks as tools are arranged and organized. They are not comforting sounds in what they mean—that I will soon be cut open and operated on—but they are nice to listen to in and of themselves. I'm not exactly a stranger to this kind of situation: I had to go in and out of hospital rooms all my life, even from incidents as small as a stubbed toe. This, though. This is different. This is big, in many ways. This will actually change—everything. It will change everything for me. I will literally be walking into a new stage of life. I mean, I won't be wrestling the Incredible Hulk, but fucking come on, I'll be walking! I'll...

I smile sleepily.

I'll be able to do all the things men may age should be doing.

I think on that for a while, musing distractedly about love and sex and porn. After—minutes, hours, days—I realize my eyesight is getting blurry, and for a second I panic. Then I remember, and I feel like I'm settling into a comfortable chair, except it's in my body. I sink down and down and down, still smiling.

Is this what dying feels like?

* * *

"Careful, Mr. Moreau," cautions Jacob Taylor, Miranda's lieutenant. I shoot him a mock-nasty look, trying to balance without my crutches. He holds up his hands with a chuckle. Whatever, it's not like he's ever had to learn how to walk when he was _thirty_.

"It's kind of a big deal here, okay? Just...give me a minute."

Jacob nods without saying a word. He's a calm, understanding guy, I'll give him that. He's also really cool, the kind of guy you can totally chill with. I think I might like to hang out with him. What he saw in Miranda, though...

With a huff, I teeter on the edge of the PT table, then gingerly take a step forward. A dull throbbing begins like it always does when I'm doing physical therapy, but that's okay. It's my seventh day on the Minuteman Station building up strength, and I think I'm making progress. So far I've been able to stand, then stand without any type of support. Now it's time for walking. My test today is to walk to Jacob, on the other side of the room, then walk back to the table. I have a crutch tucked under one arm just in case something happens, but today I feel like I could be goddamn Forrest.

Man, that reference is so old.

Jacob watches me with an approving expression on his face as I stutter toward him, and I grin, too happy to be annoyed. He raises his fist when I get to him, somewhat out of breath, and I bump it, both of us smiling. "How goes it?" he asks, and I turn around, ready to head back.

"Not bad, not bad. A little achy, and my muscles aren't used to this much exercise, but I'm just happy I can _walk_."

"I hear that. A couple of years ago I broke my gun arm, couldn't shoot for a _long_ time. When I finally got the cast off, I had to learn how to shoot a gun all over again. Mostly 'cos my muscles atrophied and lost their memory. It was not fun times, I'll tell you."

"Uh-huh." Legs shaking with stress, I sit down gratefully on the low table and massage my thighs with my thumbs, sighing with relief. "Oh yeah. That feels good."

"You may not be an Olympian runner, but you're getting along pretty nicely," the lieutenant comments, crossing his arms. "And you were definitely worth it. What we're doing, we need strong people."

I frown. "Right. The Reapers. Are you sure Shepard's going to be ready for that? You know, with post mortem and everything." Thinking about it, I grow nervous, and I clasp my hand around the dogtags. They help.

Jacob snorts and rubs his nose. "What they're doing to Shepard in the labs, I think she could tear a geth in half with her bare hands."

"And the Illusive Man. He's okay pouring all this money into us, just to get us back in action?"

"I don't doubt his judgment on certain things. This thing right here—" he points to the ground, staring at me hard "—this I don't doubt, not one bit. Shepard—and you, and everything we're planning—is worth the money, the risk, everything. If the Illusive Man wasn't sure of this, none of us would be here right now."

"Joker," comes Miranda's voice over the intercom. "Shepard's down in the communication room. I think she might like to see you."

I nearly have a heart attack right then and there. "Shepard's—she's _awake?_ Why didn't anyone tell me?" I practically throw myself off the table, forgetting my tired muscles and bones, ready to see her.

"Whoa whoa whoa mister man." Jacob steps in front of me, blocking my way to the door—and Shepard. He frowning in that super-serious way of his. "Take it easy. If you push yourself too hard, you're bound to strain or break something. Or both. She's still the same person you saw a month ago."

I had been allowed one visit to see Shepard when she was almost finished, and it had been eerie. She was alive, yet not. Oh, her body was fully intact, they just needed to sort out some issues with the brain, but seeing her there, on the table, _alive_...it had made me doubt just how permanent death was.

"Right. Okay," I breathe, closing my eyes to calm myself down. Inhale. Exhale. I open my eyes. "Can I go now?"

In answer, Jacob half-bows out of the way, following me with a chuckle. We part ways in the hallway, him heading toward Miranda, and me heading toward the comm room.

I hear her before I see her, and I cannot suppress the shiver that jolts down my spine. It's like...it's like hearing your father speak after he's been dead for years. Except this was Shepard, _the_ Shepard...

There she is. Right there. In front of me. Living, breathing...

"Hey Commander," I say lamely, my emotions to tight for me to smile. "Just like old times, huh?"

"Joker!" She turns to me from the hologram projector, and I swear nothing has sounded sweeter. She raises a hand and claps me on the shoulder, then looks me over, her dirty-red hair tucked behind one ear. "You're walking now? Did Cerberus give you an upgrade, too?"

"Yeah, you can say that. Come on, I want to show you something." I jerk my head towards the stairs, and on the way to my surprise we chat. What about? Oh, stuff. Cerberus. What happened in the past couple of years.

"It was a drag, Commander, without you everyone just...kind of lost each other, you know? And the Alliance, they put a big ol' pile of manure right over all of your accomplishments," I explain as I limp, Shepard keeping a politely slow pace beside me. My legs are screaming at me right now, but that's okay. It's all worth it. "Everyone denies the Reapers are a threat, most people don't even know about them. I tried speaking up, but when I did the Alliance grounded me to the Citadel. Sucked ass, I gotta say."

"So what made you decide to join Cerberus?" Shepard and I stop at a window that shows nothing but darkness. She leans against the frame, trying to see what's inside.

I finger the dogtags for one last time, then reluctantly slip them from my head. "These," I murmur, holding them out for Shepard. She takes a look at them, and takes them into her hands. She doesn't say anything.

"Miranda gave them to me, to lure me into joining Cerberus. Well, they got me, hook, line, and sinker. And they're not all bad." I smile, suddenly euphoric. "They gave me—us—_this_."

And inside one of the Minuteman's many docking bays, the lights turn on, slowly illuminating the brand-new SR-2 Normandy-class ship inside. Shepard's eyes light up, and the grins at me.

"Guess we'll have to give her a name."

"Aye aye, Commander."


	4. On AIs and the Extranet

I think this is going to be purely a Joker fic. Continuing on writing the story with that in mind. By the way, yes, the raloi are an actual in-universe species (but not an in-game species). They discovered an asari spaceship during the time Commander Shepard was dead. They are avian, more so than the turians.

* * *

The first time I hear its voice, welcoming me to the cockpit, I scream—and it's a very _manly_ scream, I assure you—and almost throw myself out of my chair.

"Are you alright, Mr. Moreau?" that voice asks, sounding neither amused nor worried.

"Am I—..." I take off my cap and run my hand through my hair. _Jesus Christ!_ "What the fuck is _this?_" I cry, throwing my hands and cap into the air as if asking God himself.

"My name is EDI. I am the Normandy's AI."

Oh, that smug voice. "Yeah, I get that, thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, what the fuck are doing in my ship?"

A blue orb pops up to my left. I flinch. "I am here to do the things you cannot do alone, Mr. Moreau." _Is that a _vagina_ that's speaking to me? _"I will calculate algorithms, operate certain parts of the ship such as its guns and shields while you navigate. It will be much more effective than if you were to do it manually."

Oh no it didn't just say that. My ego steps in, ready to do battle with this..._thing_. "Hey, you know what, I handled the last Normandy _just fine_ without an overpriced VI nagging at me the entire time. I did things most people couldn't do if they had five arms and were part geth, so don't you tell me you can do better than I can." Smashing my cap on my head, I swivel back to the consoles and begin doing systems checks, scowling so hard I feel like my mouth is going to fall off.

"Mr. Moreau, you are only human. This Normandy is twice the size of the original, thus there are twice as many systems to calibrate. There is not enough crew to do it all manually and efficiently. This is why I am here."

Shut up shut up shut up. "Are you a female?" I ask nonchalantly, typing away on the interface without looking up at the blue orb-vajayjay.

EDI's physical manifestation seems to hiccup. "I am made to sound like a female human, yes. I was programmed to sound soothing, and out-of-the-way."

"Well, if you want to be 'out-of-the-way,' why don't you go in the kitchen and make me a sandwich, woman? Jesus, it's like I got married and now I'm stuck in one room forever, with you. _And it's only been five minutes._"

The orb blinks, then disappears. I listen intently, fingers never slowing, and after a minute or two I relax and grin. Finally.

For the next couple of hours I'm doing my thing: scanning equipment, cargo, systems specs, engines, fuel and fuel capacity, guns, supplies, all that stuff. Really I'm supposed to be doing deeper checks into engines and calculations, but I like to skim over everything about the ships I fly, even if it's someone else's job to sort those things out. After about four hours, though, I'm starting to feel the toll of my work. EDI—though I will never admit it—was right: there really is too much stuff here to do by myself. Another hour passes, and I'm contemplating asking EDI for help, but my pride won't let me say the words.

"How is she, Joker? Is she everything they said she'd be?"

For split second I think Shepard's talking about EDI. "Are you kidding me, Commander?" I grin and guide my chair towards Commander Shepard, happy to have a break. "I think I've died and gone to pilot heaven! This Normandy is _way_ better than the old one, check this out, _leather seats!_" Squirming in my chair joyfully, I explain, "I mean, sure the old Normandy was great, but they didn't give a rat's ass whether or not you were comfortable. Military-grade shit, you know? I can sit in this thing for _days_. Not like the old Normandy."

"Specifications were not meant to be perfect copies, Mr. Moreau." It's back. God help me. "This Normandy was meant to be an improvement of the old one."

"Aaand there's the downside. I like the new Normandy, Commander, but she's got this thing I don't wanna talk about. It's like ship cancer."

Shepard laughs. "Oh, get over it, Joker, it's not going to kill you. I kinda like her."

"_Her?_ Sure, fine, go ahead and get smoochy with it. But when it's throwing our asses out of the airlocks, I'll be the one laughing."

"Don't be such a sourpuss, Joker," she tells me, smacking me on the knee. Ow. She got stronger. "When she's the one _saving_ our asses, I'll be the one laughing. Now. To business. First stop is Omega."

I return to my console, skeptical. "Omega, Commander? Who are we after, mercs and drug-dealers? Doesn't sound like people you'd want on a suicide mission."

"No.." She slips an OSD from her pocket, consulting it. "We're after three people here: a guy named Archangel, Professor Mordin Solus, and a mercenary by the name of Zaeed." She pauses. "So, yeah, mercs and drug-dealers."

"To be fair, Professor Mordin Solus is not a drug-dealer. He merely prescribes drugs to patients," EDI points out.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, that's kind of the joke. Oh wait, you're an AI, you probably don't get jokes, do you? Here's one: why did the AI cross the road?"

EDI doesn't reply for a moment. "Why?"

"To _shut the fuck up_, that's why."

"Joker!" Shepard gasps. I get a hard rap on the head from her OSD, and I wince. "That was uncalled for! I thought you were nicer than that!"

"I _am_ nice, Commander," I retort, rubbing my head. "To, you know, people. AIs don't classify as 'people.'"

"Neither do animals, but I don't see you going around, kicking puppies."

"They'd probably break my shinbone from their weight."

She makes a strangled sound, and without another word, stomps from the cockpit. I laugh. I love Commander Shepard, I really do, but you'd think a person who has to kill other people on a daily basis would be a little more callused. Hey, look at me: I'm just a pilot and have skin as hard as goddamn _rock_.

That's probably not a good thing, though.

"Mr. Moreau, the Normandy is ready for takeoff."

"Yeah yeah, whatever." I press a button, and the _Normandy_ fires its engines up, moving smoothly out of the Minuteman docking bay. I relax in my chair, playing with some calculations here and there, not really giving anything much though. Man, does it feel good to be flying again!

"Do I bother you, Mr. Moreau?"

I'm a little surprised it's asking me this. "Well, yeah, isn't that obvious?"

"You seem extremely hostile towards me."

I sigh, not wanting to get into a discussion with the AI. "Look, I just want to enjoy this. My commander's been dead for two years and _I_ was chained to the ground. And now that she's back, and I'm able to fly, I just kinda wanna bask in it, but I have you talking over my shoulder—so to speak—and it kind of gets on my nerves. So. Yeah. You bother me. Just let me have some Joker time."

EDI does not respond, and I think I've talked her into being quiet. A couple of hours until we arrive in Omega—time to sit back and just laze about. I take a nap, then look up some reports on the extranet. Who cares about Fashion Week on Ilium? I don't. Hmm. Looks like the galaxy's newest species, the raloi, can finally go around other alien species without their environmental suits. That's...good, I guess. I'm sure the quarians and volus feel miserable with their suits on twenty-four-seven. I mean, I would be pretty fucking upset too if taking off my clothes meant I died. Or exploded. Still, I hope the raloi are more peaceful than the batarians. More species just means more strife, and I don't want anything added to that. Ah, Shepard's here; Shepard's death's anniversary is coming up. Never liked that day myself; I always hid in my apartment with the extranet off. It's kind of a small event, since the higher-ups decided Shepard was a screwball and hid all of her accomplishments, but people still mourn her. I guess that's a good thing. Means she's appreciated.

"Mr. Moreau."

"Yes, EDI," I sigh.

"Fuel at one-half capacity."

I raise my eyebrows and check the gauge; the AI is right. "We'll refill on Omega." Hmm. This Normandy eats up a lot more fuel than the SR-1. Luckily, we're about half an hour out, so no worries about running out of fuel.

At ten-til, I bring up the comm panel. "Ten minutes out, Commander."

"Roger, Joker, thanks."

"No problem, Commander."

EDI pops up beside me. "Omega: Milky Way, Omega Nebula, Sahrabarik; created from an abandoned mined asteroid, supposedly by the Protheans. Population of seven-point-eight million humans, batarians, asari, quarians, elcor, vorcha, turians, salarians, and krogan. Called 'Omega' by humans, also known as 'the heart of evil,' 'the place of secrets,' 'the world without law,' and 'land of opportunity' by asari, salarian, turians, and krogan respectively. Mercenary gangs: Blood Pack, Eclipse, and Blue Suns, run a large portion of Omega's economy; Aria T'Loak is the _de facto_ leader of Omega."

"Wow, a geography lesson, _thanks_." I shake my head in exasperation.

"I thought it necessary one of us know the details of where we are docking," the AI replies in her calm tone.

It's been awhile since I've had missions with Shepard, and I didn't think I would have any more; I've forgotten what I was expected to do, but I'm not going to tell EDI that. "Alright, fine. Let's dock and get refueled, then get the hell away from this place."

"Scared, Mr. Moreau?" I swear to god, it's _teasing_ me.

"No, I just think this ship is brand new and if anyone so much as _looks_ at it funny I'm going to use them as target practice for her new guns."

"It sounds like you are trying to compensate for something."

I jerk my head up at EDI, eyebrows raised. "Uh, _no_." Turning smug, I say, "They just better not touch my baby."

"You are aware, Mr. Moreau, that I _am_ the Normandy's AI. In this way I am also the Normandy itself. With that in mind, you are calling me—"

"Sh-sh-sh! No! Just—no! Okay? No! No. No no no."

"You're turning red, Mr. Moreau."

"Yeah. Thanks a lot, EDI."

"You're welcome, Mr. Moreau."


End file.
